


A View From the Shadows

by Mirach



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Good and Evil, One Shot Collection, Paths of the Dead, Witch-king of Angmar backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirach/pseuds/Mirach
Summary: A series of one shots focusing on the view of those who were considered evil in Middle-earth: Morgoth, Sauron, Witch-King of Angmar, the Dead under the mountain and the Mouth of Sauron.To See the Light:We are trapped in eternal shadow. Who shall call us from the grey twilight? Who shall give us freedom? Will he dare to walk our paths – the Paths of the Dead?Shadows and Memories:They walked in each other's shadow, and only after their meeting, they can be free. Éowyn and the Witch-king – let each of them tell you their storyYou Wouldn't Dare:The Mouth of Sauron came before the Black Gate to negotiate with the Captains of the West. What did he think? (starts as movie-verse, ends as book-verse)Look into my Eyes:Not just a flaming eye, but a person. The last moments of Sauron.Shades of Grey:Manwë visits Melkor in the Void, and finds pity for the former enemy in his heart. Sometimes, there are shades of grey between white and black (translation to Chinese and German available)
Relationships: Manwë Súlimo & Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Éowyn/Witch-king of Angmar
Kudos: 31





	1. To See the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are trapped in eternal shadow. Who shall call us from the grey twilight? Who shall give us freedom? Will he dare to walk our paths – the Paths of the Dead?

Time passes like grey threads of cobwebs floating in the stall air of underground passages. Like the cracking of dry bones and echoes of long rotten drums is its rhythm. Like the last breath of a withered corpse it strokes my unseeing eyes in the eternal darkness. It creeps forwards: moment after moment, hour after hour, century after century. It passes by. But we stay.

We are the whispers in the empty hallways, ashes and dust carried on the wings of colourless moths. Forgotten. Dead. This is our world... The whispers, the shadows. I know that it was not always so. There had to be life once. There had to be feeling in my fingers when I touched things. There had to be blood in veins and wine in goblets. There had to be voices, real voices raised in song. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember my name. It is cold... so cold.

There have been words. They echo in the empty darkness still. They were just sounds, just passing ripples on the surface of air. How is it that they have such power? The ripples grow... they spread their circles, further and further. We are trapped here, in their circles. The words of an oath... and the words of a curse. There is no escape. We desire warmth, but it is cold, so very cold. We desire peace, but there is only unrest and turmoil. We want to sleep… sleep and dream, or just sleep and know nothing. Anything is better than this dream without sleep, this nightmare. We desire light, but we are trapped in eternal darkness, in the shadow of an unfulfilled oath.

Shhhh... A sound! A real sound in the heavy silence of death. The warmth of a living breath moves the still air. The hooves of horses clatter on the cold stones like rain behind the window of a man condemned to thirst. The fire of torches. A memory of light and warmth. It is so cold.... Who dares? Who dares to mock us?!? Who dares to disturb our un-peace?

They are many. In a silent cohort they walk, one byone. Their feet swirl the dust of centuries. They walk with their gaze cast down, and do not look back. They are afraid. We feel it... we smell it. The sickly pale smell of fear. We draw closer. We follow them. We circle around them. The life! We need it! We need to touch it, to feel it, taste it, devour it! Closer. Closer to the fire. It is so cold.... Closer to the life! They came to disturb, to plunder! We will not let them pass! We will drink their life like wine, and maybe it will make us forget the eternal emptiness just for a short while.

Here, in this place.... They will not see our hoards behind these doors. Only one mortal tried to open them until now. His bones lie here still, dust and ashes and cold glimmer of gold instead of a mound. This place will be your tomb as well! Closer.... We circle. We lurk. We wait. Closer. Closer.... We bask in the warmth of life that we can’t feel. Soon it will be cold again. Dust and ashes and cold bones where no light of stars can reach. Yes, come closer. Touch the gold...

“ _Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!”_

Hush! Wait! Do not touch them yet! _Erech_....The name brings a memory. The oath and the curse. The bonds that are holding us here. They are bound to that stone, heavy like death and black like the darkness of our extinguished sight. He summons us.... Who is he? Who is he that he dares to order us? Is he the one who can give us peace? After so many centuries.... No! We do not believe! You can’t give us peace, you can’t give us light! It is cold, cold and dark! No light, no fire! If you ask speed, you must walk in the darkness. Yes, the flames! The warm flames of your torches we will extinguish, but not the flames of your life yet. We can wait for a while longer, we can follow you in the dark, follow you to the dark stone in the dark land. It is dark everywhere, but we must know who you are.

We follow. We watch. When they stumble, we draw closer. When they hesitate for a moment, we reach for them, for the warmth of their life. But we do not touch yet. We take the breath from their mouth and drink its warmth. It is so cold.… Nothing can warm us. We watch for any who would stumble and fall, overwhelmed by the darkness, but no one does. They walk forwards steadily, as if guided by an invisible line. _He_ guides them. His will is like a shield between them and us. Does he not feel fear? Does he not feel our cold breath on the back of his neck?

Oh yes, he does. He _is_ afraid. We can smell his fear. We can smell his sweat and weariness. Oh, he is weary, so weary, and a shadow lies on his heart. And yet he walks steadily through darkness and the thick mist of fear, and his men follow him like a beacon in deadly storm. What is it that guides him forwards when he should fall or turn and run back, into our cold embrace? Oh, it is tempting, so tempting to reach for the warm flame of his life. We long for it, we need it! But we know that it will extinguish when we touch it. We long for the light, but our touch turns it to darkness. We long for warmth, but our touch turns it to cold ashes. But he… he feels different. Could his flame last? Could he be our beacon, too? We follow him; circle around him like moths driven to the flame. Maybe he can give light to us.…

Out of the caves, we follow him and await our time. There should be stars on the sky, but there are none. They are a vague memory of forgotten times when we yet looked up to the sky. There are no stars for us. Their light does not reach through the veil of death. At midnight, the darkness is strongest. At midnight, he must give us the light, or we will take it ourselves, and maybe it will be different this time, not like with the stars. Now there are just shadows. Shadows of horses to give us speed. Shadows of spears and banners to remember the shadows of battles that we didn’t take. At midnight we will have his light. The hunt is on!

Ride through the darkness! Ride under the stars that only you can see! We follow, and the shadowy land runs under the hooves of shadowy horses. We ride after you like hunters, and your light is our prey. After many centuries, we feel the thrill of pursuit again. Something will change in the eternal emptiness today. The midnight is near.

Their horses stumble with weariness. The riders are exhausted, too, and he the most of them. There is a shadow in his mind that has nothing to do with the path under the mountain - we can feel it because shadows belong to our world. Shadow of a fiery eye and hard battle with its terrible will. They are connected – the eye and our curse, but the memories evade us. And another shadow lies on his heart – the shadow of a maiden in white like a wild thing in a cage. And yet he does not fall under the shadow and weariness, and drives his horse to desperate speed. Foam drips from its muzzle and its flanks glisten with sweat. It should fall, but instead it runs like an arrow, swallowing the miles of night. It follows the will of its master, just like the other men and their horses.

Erech. The weight pressing on the shadowy land, bending it so that there is no escape. It binds us; it anchors us here, in the world of darkness and cold. No escape, no freedom, just its heavy silhouette and the echo of words spoken in this place. Midnight is passing over the land in our heels, but they have reached the stone. We watch and wait.

A horn sounds. What a deep, reverberating sound, reaching like silver spear through the veil of shadow where all sounds are dull and muted! Just like his voice...

“ _Oathbreakers, why have ye come?”_

Why have we come? We came driven by your flame; we came for the promise of light. We followed you because we are cold and strive for warmth...

“ _To fulfil our oath and have peace.”_

Peace.... Peace we ask. Can you give it to us, mortal? Can you break this curse of eternal non-existence? Are you the one that we are waiting for during all these centuries of misery?

“ _The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever. For I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor._ ”

A great standard is unfurled. It is dark, but we can see what it depicts. A tree, a crown. Stars. They shine! We can see their light! In the world of shadows, we can see the light of stars! At last... The hour is come at last! You have given us light, heir of Isildur; you have given us the promise of peace and freedom for which we no longer hoped. We will follow you, heir of Sea-Kings, follow you and fulfil our oath! We have been summoned...

* * *

Shadows of horses to give us speed. Shadows of spears to clean the land of the servants of Sauron. Shadows of battles that we didn’t fight hangs above us, but we will walk out of that shadow today, and finally take on the battle, like we swore - shadows of forgotten people to find peace at last...

The sun rose and sank in the sky, once, two times... we did not count its circles. Time has small meaning to us. The sun sails the sky, but we do not feel the warmth of her rays. When they stopped, we waited; when they moved, we followed. When they slept, we drank the light from their dreams and replaced it with our darkness, because we are hungry for light. But they did not sleep much. They rode forwards, ever forwards, almost to utter exhaustion, and he was always at the front as if he could never know weariness, his will the only bond that kept them going.

We rode after them, and then we fought. Our last battle, our chance to regain the lost honour. For a moment, we could feel the swords and spears in our hands, and the shadowy banners blew proudly, as if there was a real wind in the motionless air of our world. The echoes of horns blew, and echoes of battle-cries sounded over the field. We could smell the warm blood of our enemies, and for that moment it was like heady wine, and we could almost feel again **....** It did not last. It could not give us light. We drank the light of their lives, but it was tainted with black, and turned to darkness as soon as we touched it. But there was a promise of a real light at the end of this battle. We fought until the land was clean from the servants of Sauron again. And then...

He stood on the prow of the mightiest ship. His face was pale and his hands shook with exhaustion, and yet he stood tall and proud like Isildur himself, and a star was on his brow. Behold its light! Is shines through the darkness and shadow, untainted light like a wonder to our blind eyes...

“ _Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys ever again! Depart and be at rest!”_

Rest....Sleep.... Find peace.... The oath is fulfilled. The curse is broken. We are free, free at last! You have showed us light in the eternal darkness, Heir of Isildur. You have brought warmth into the cold world of shadows. We paid the price for our treachery with the chains binding us to this world, but you paid the price for our freedom.

I can see the light! It is so bright... and yet it does not hurt my eyes used to darkness – it is inviting.... I remember! I remember the feeling of tree bark under my fingers, and the feeling of fresh wind in my face. The cold thaws. I can feel warmth again. I remember my name... I follow the light.

Rest... sleep... peace...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quotes from The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company and Chapter 9: The Last Debate


	2. Shadows and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They walked in each other's shadow, and only after their meeting, they can be free. Éowyn and the Witch-king – let each of them tell you their story.

Who am I?

There are moments when I feel I'm close to grasping the memory, floating at the edge of my mind like a... like... Oh, I know there are such things – light and frail and... alive. But I am not alive. I can't remember their name. When I try to imagine, only the pictures of dark shadows come to me, circling around me like vultures above a carcass. But I am not dead. I walk in the grey world between death and life – a cold shadow of fear. Yes, that's what I am. The mightiest of the Úlairi. A Nazgûl. What – but not who.

Who am I? – I ask the darkness. _You are the Witch-king..._ it answers. It whispers. It rustles – like the scales of a snake on the hard stone. _Witch-king..._ Might and glory. The ruler of Angmar. The Captain of vast armies awaiting my command. Fear me and despair, for I am your doom! Neither dead nor alive, but death walks at my heels like my slave, a dog feeding on the blood spilled by its master. I laugh at the face of death, for it has no might over me. Me and my ring. Do you feel the cold fingers of fear grasping your heart when you hear my voice? When my blade sinks into your flesh, do you feel the warmth of life leaving your body? Look at me in that moment, for in the realm of shadows between life and death, you can see me as I really am, unveiled and glorious. Do you fear death? I am yours... I am...

Who am I? There is a quiet voice of doubt in my mind. _You are a slave..._ it says. _A slave of the ring that gave you immortality. Look at yourself and see its price..._ No, I can't look at myself. There is no mirror that can show my picture. I am a shadow in the world of shadows, and there is one will that is above mine – His. The Master of the One Ring calls, and I must obey. That is the price.

" _What I offer you is power, my friend. Power greater than the king of Númenor has. You will be the master of death itself. Power and immortality – that's what I offer you, because I see the greatness in you. To none else I would make that offer."_

" _What do you want for it, Annatar?"_

" _Nothing..." the fair stranger smiled. "Just your friendship and appreciation of my craft. The rings are my masterpieces and are very precious to me. I would like to see them put to a good use in capable hands."_

" _Is it truly like you say?"_

" _Ah, who knows..." he laughed. "I_ _haven't tried_ _them yet. I'm just an artist – I don't want power. If it doesn't work, will it do any harm? You can return it to me if you want, or keep it as a memory of me."_

" _Then... I accept."_

* * *

Who am I?

There are only shadows. I'm lost. I want to go home... But I can't remember where it is. How did I get into this grey country? It is so cold here...

Who am I? Somehow I know that to leave this place, I must remember. I try – I reach for the memories when I feel them fluttering near, I reach hastily – and grasp only dust and shadows. So quick they are, so elusive – like foals grazing on the new grass... foals...

" _No, you can't ride Snowflake! You are too small for that!"_

_The little girl pouted. "And you are acting like a big brother again!"_

" _I_ am _your big brother!"_

" _But I am big too! I will ride to battle like_ _Father_ _! He will allow me to ride Snowflake when he returns!"_

_A shade of sadness flickered in the boy's eyes. "Oh sister... He won't return. You know that..."_

" _I don't believe that. He will return!" But the girl's voice revealed uncertainty. "Tell me he will..." A plea._

_He could not lie, not even to her. "He is dead, sister... You have heard the messenger..."_

_The girl was quiet for a moment, fighting tears. But then, instead of weeping, her pretty features hardened. "I will avenge him! I will ride to battle, and kill those nasty orcs!" She looked at him earnestly. "I need a horse."_

_He felt a shiver going down his spine under her determined gaze. So frail... so strong... He shook his head slowly. "You can't ride Snowflake..."_

" _\- but..."_

" _\- no, let me finish. You can't ride her now. She will have a foal soon..."_

" _A... foal?"_

" _Yes. And I'm sure it will grow into a strong horse, just like Snowflake. Then he will be yours, and you_ _train_ _him for the saddle, and ride him as much as you want. Would you like that?"_

_The girl nodded, and smiled slightly, for the first time in that day. "I will name him Windfola..."_

* * *

Sometimes I think that in that time, he believed in what he was saying. They say he was a master of lies then, but I'm not sure about that. Maybe he lied even to himself when he convinced me to take that small piece of metal – my doom. I am its slave. But he... I wonder if he is a Master of the One, or its slave also. And what would I wish? I don't know. The memory floats in my mind. Once, he was my friend – or I believed so. Who can say what he believed? Now he is no longer the fair jewel smith with the fiery gaze. But that gaze... that's the only thing that remained – watching, ever searching for his lost Ring. I can feel it too, because my ring is bound to the One – the loss, the dull ache as if a part of me had gone missing. An emptiness that only the power of the Ring can fill. And I will find it! I will bring it back to him. Because he is more, so much more. He is darkness. He is glory. He is my Master and I will follow him to the end, bearing high his banner. I know to whom I am loyal.

It was so close... The Ring. The gratitude of my Master. So close... On Weathertop, you saw me, Halfling! You saw my true face in the shadows. I could feel your little scared heart beating in your chest. I could feel the cold morgul blade slipping into your warm flesh, poisoning, binding you to us. The name of the Western Queen saved you... for now. But you will not escape! You will become one of us, a shadow among shadows. You will see what we do, and serve who we serve. And you will bring the Ring into His hands. Yes, He will have hands again, and the world will be His – and under his command, mine. For I am a king still.

" _You are from the line of Elros, my son, do not forget that."_

" _I never do, father. I feel the blood of kings in my veins. They call me to a great destiny, I know it."_

" _I am proud of you, my son. If only Manwendil_ _had been_ _the eldest son of Elros, and not Vardamir..."_

" _It_ _is_ _no use to think about what could be. I will build my own kingdom in Middle-earth, you will see..."_

" _I wish I could. But I foresee that I will not live to see you again."_

" _Father! Do not speak so! You will see many more years!"_

" _Maybe..." the Númenorean lord smiled a little sadly. "Be safe, my son, and may the western wind bear your ship to your destiny."_

For a moment I thought I saw my father there, at Weathertop. He came wielding burning torches in both hands, with a battle cry on his lips. I saw those proud features, the kingly eyes of the man I once respected so much. Eyes like stars... "Elendil!" he cried. No, it was not my father. A Dúnadan... I knew the blood of Númenor circled in their veins still. But in this one, it was so strong... There was fire in his eyes just like in his hands. A blade cannot reach me in the shadows, but fire can. Fire exists in both worlds, just like water. Soon I would have what I came for regardless, and so I retreated before the fire of his eyes...

* * *

I remember his eyes. A chalice of wine... In the dim light of a cold morning, his eyes reflected in the crimson liquid, like looking at me through a veil of blood. His blood, or mine? I do not know. I just know I will never see him again. There is this eternal greyness around me, dividing me from everything else – from all those in the memories that are so hard to grasp. There are echoes. _Cage! Cage! Cage!_ they call. I run. I try to escape them. But the faster I run, the louder they call. They pursue me. I can't escape! I cover my ears with my hands. Still they call. _Cage!_ No!

" _Shall I always be left behind when the Riders depart, to mind the house while they win renown, and find food and beds when they return?"_

" _A time may come soon, when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised."_

" _All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death."_

" _What do you fear, lady?"_

" _A cage. To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire."_

No!

I broke the bars! I broke them! Do you hear me, voices of shadow? I was free! If only for a short time, but I was free! I felt the wind in my face and the movement of the strong horse under me. A horse... yes, Windfola was his name... I heard the battle-cry from my lips, and felt the wind drying my tears. There was nothing to live for, nothing to lose anymore. I was free...

So why am I trapped again? Why do I wander this bleak country, lost and alone? I feel it sapping my strength like a hungry leech. Is this death? No great halls of ancestors. No rest, either. If I knew, I would fear it, just like the cage. It _is_ a cage. And it is worse, for I have lost myself. I can't remember who I am...

You, lord... You with the grey eyes like a stormy sky. You who stole my heart and took it into the shadow of the Dead... You have asked me what I fear. I fear the emptiness. Please, take me away from here... I don't long for great deeds anymore. I just want something to live for.

Great deeds – they are not like the minstrels sing. I know that now. There is a terrible shadow over me, and nothing glorious is in it. It veils me in darkness, chokes me with its cold fingers... I am alone. Everyone whom I loved is dead. I don't know how long I can hold on yet. I see _him_. He has a terrible mace, and black robes are flowing around him although no wind blows here. But I see beneath the robes now. His face is pale and cruel - a mask of decay with empty eyes. He is looking at me...

* * *

Failure. We were scattered, stripped of the steeds and clothes. Naked we had to stand before the wrath of the Eye. The Ring was so close... and yet it slipped from our grasp. We were defeated by water, by the power of one of the Three. Failure. I was the one who had to stand before my Master to report it. His anger is terrible, and yet he shows also mercy to those loyal to him. We were given new clothes to walk in the physical world. And new steeds – winged and swift like the voice of a storm. I was a king again, the Captain of armies awaiting my command. _To the White City!_ was the command. _Burn and destroy! There will be no tomorrow for Gondor!_

I was the messenger of Death, the destroyer. My world was not empty in that moment – it was filled with the shadows of dying, who dwell on the border for a short while before they depart for ever. There were hundreds of them, and I felt the blood seeping into soil, their waning strength like strong wine burning in my veins. I was the king of war, and bane of kings. The king of Rohan lay before me broken, dying. He was mine...

" _Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!"_

" _Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked_ _to the Lidless Eye."_

" _Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."_

" _Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"_

" _But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him."_

It was she.

I saw her face again.

So frail. So strong. So beautiful.

My Fréawyn...

She stood in the port when my ship arrived to Middle-earth. The wind played with her hair – the sun of noon and ripeness of corn was trapped in them. Her eyes carried a piece of the sky. She was like a statue of marble – delicate and seemingly frail, yet strong like the stone, like the land itself. She did not avert her eyes when I looked at her. She met my sight as proudly as the greatest queens of Numenor, though she was only the daughter of some local lord.

I seized the land. I made her my queen. With her, I always knew who I was. But then... the memories are faded with time, or are those shadows veiling them? The same shadows that I walk in, that envelop me. They came with the ring, with the power – slowly, inconspicuously like a thief in the night, crawling into my mind and blurring the colours of the world. Fréawyn's hair. I could not remember how gold they were. Her face paled in my memories, and I did not look at her anymore. The golden fields lay under snow, and her face bore the marks of time like a land after ploughing. What happened to her then? I don't know... Maybe she left. Maybe she died. I had power and eternal life. That was everything that mattered to me. I forgot...

She stood before me again. Frail like a rose and strong like steel. So desperate. So beautiful. No, it was not her. It was another maiden. But no more did I ask who I am. I tried to kill her, to kill the memory, for it was painful... but at the end, it was she who dealt the killing blow. No living man, but a woman. Éowyn, Éomund's daughter and the picture of Fréawyn, my love. No longer am I bound to the shadow, walking the border between life and death. Death calls me, pulls me away to pay all debts to her. And I do not resist. I follow the departing shadows. I follow the king I wanted to make my prey. What will come next, I don't know. Maybe _she_ will await me there...

* * *

The shadow vanishes. I can breathe again. The air smells of spring, clean and fresh like the first blades of grass and melting snow in the mountains.

" _Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!"_

A voice calls me, promises to lead me home. I recognize the voice. I thought my heart would stir when I would hear it again, but it does not. Maybe the love I felt was a shadow, just like those that enveloped me. Just a shadow and thought... I didn't want to be with him. I wanted to be _like_ him. Will I ever find true love? I do not know. But I follow the voice, for I am tired of shadows, and I want to live. Not for glory or great deeds, but for life itself.

" _Éowyn! Éowyn!"_

Yes, that is my name. I am Éowyn, lady of Rohan... My brother calls me... Éomer! He is not slain like the shadows told me. He calls me home... I come, brother! I open my eyes, and the shadow of the king of wraiths vanishes forever...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quotes from:  
> J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company  
> J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 6: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields  
> J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King, Book V, Chapter 8: The Houses of Healing
> 
> Written for Teitho: Devil's Advocate


	3. You Wouldn't Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mouth of Sauron came before the Black Gate to negotiate with the Captains of the West. What did he think? (starts as movie-verse, ends as book-verse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He signed to one of his guards, and he came forward bearing a bundle swathed in black cloths. The Messenger put these aside, and there to the wonder and dismay of all the Captains he held up first the short sword that Sam had carried, and next a grey cloak with an elven-brooch, and last the coat of mithril-mail that Frodo had worn wrapped in his tattered garments.
> 
> (J. R. R. Tolkien: The Return of the King)

Ah, I touched a sore spot... He was dear to you, I see. Pitiful little creatures! I see how your faces blanched. Did you think that you can send such a child-like creature to spy on my Master? Did you think that something can avoid His gaze in His own land? Was his task important to you? Know then that it failed!

Ah, the look on your faces... I didn't think I would trigger this reaction. There must be more in this small creature then you dare to admit. Don't think that I don't see the emotions behind the mask you put on, wizard! Satisfying... Very satisfying. You don't need to know that those stupid orcs let him go, he will be caught again soon enough. Maybe he already is, in this very moment, and screams on the torture devices of Barad Dûr. I wish you could hear his screams, wizard!

Don't think that I don't see the grief and despair in your eyes, heir of cursed Isildur! You are nothing more then rabble from some dirty village in the North! I am a true Númenorean, a Black Númenorean, the first Lieutenant of Barad Dûr. You are nothing! Nothing at all! What did you think, to come to the Black Gate with this sorrowful excuse of an army, and dare to challenge Sauron the Great himself? Did you indeed lose all your wits? I don't understand now why my Master shows you such respect that he sends *me* to negotiate with you! He can crush you with one blow of His fist, brat!

Ah, you put on a brave face. You know that you have no chance, why do you bother? You want to intimidate me? Amusing, highly amusing. You know that you can't touch me. I'm an Ambassador, a Messenger. You wouldn't dare, you are weak: I saw how my news have touched you. The loss of a mere Halfling! I can make you lose more, much more! Let's see if the bravery will hold when you will kneel in chains before His throne. You think you can touch me? You wouldn't dare! You wou-...

* * *

Ah. For a moment I've had the feeling that you would… The look in your eyes… You almost scared me. _Almost_ , Worm. Almost! Nobody scares the Mouth of Sauron the Great: me, his most trusted Lieutenant…

You _almost_ fooled me. For a moment I thought that I saw my death in your eyes. Yes, you meant it… but you are not strong enough! I knew it for the whole time: you are a weakling, just like is weak the army that you have brought to the Black Gate.

I would do it, you know. I would kill you, wouldn't the wizard watch me as if he knew… I would kill you and obliterate the offense that you are to the Númenorean race! But you? You wouldn't kill a child. You wouldn't kill a woman. You wouldn't kill a messenger. You call that honour. I call it weakness!

You _wanted_ to kill me. You almost raised that shattered sword of yours. For that short moment I almost believed you, and my thoughts froze. How strange… But your sword didn't fall, and when I looked into your eyes again, I saw the struggle of your honour against your desire. And I knew that I was right. You wouldn't dare! You disgust me!

I would kill you, but the wizard is watching, and I don't know what he hides behind his very thoughts. And so I spit before your feet, and turn back, to the Black Gate, and to the army waiting behind it. Soon we will meet again. And I, I would dare!

* * *

We meet again. Yes, look into my eyes, you would-be king! Look into the eyes of your death! I've been watching you, you know… I've been watching as you fought against the army of my Master. Oh yes, you know how to hold the sword and kill the stupid orcs. You killed many while I watched, always in the first line, always before your men. I don't know what they see in you, that they follow you in your foolish desire to die.

You are a fighter – a good fighter, – but you are no leader. You endanger yourself; you risk your life to save some pitiful life of some of your unimportant men! And I, I was watching, safely behind my Master's army – like a true leader.

You are tired. Slowly, slowly the fight took its toll on you. Often you were separated from your men because of your foolish bravery, and the orcs were many. Some of them managed to get through your defenses before falling under your sword. I would not like them to wound you seriously – you are mine. They managed to deal you only minor wounds, but every one of them weakened you… and I waited.

I saw you stumble... just a small, barely perceptible wavering, but I knew that my time had come. You are exhausted, and the orcs managed to cut you from your men again. That is my opportunity. Yes, look into my eyes! They will be the last sight that you will see.

Hah, your look is tired! There may be the same fire burning in your eyes, as when I thought that you would kill me, there may be the same determination, but you lift your head tiredly, and your hands tremble slightly after the long fight. So? Will you make the first step? I think not. I have already ascertained: you wouldn't dare…

Hey! What's that? You make a step forward… another… you are going to attack me! So you would… Ah, never mind, the first step won't matter at the end. And at the end, you will be dead! But now I must stop these thoughts, satisfactory as they might be, and concentrate on the fight.

The first blow. Hah, won't you reconsider? Good then! You advance at me quickly, changing positions of your sword. The blow will come from above. I have studied you when you fought with orcs. Meant to cut from shoulder to hip… yes, it's one of the most powerful and dangerous blows… when you aren't expecting it. But I do. I raise my sword to meet yours, and steel clangs on steel. Now it's my advantage! With a quick change of the angle of my crosspiece I can bind your blade and slide mine alongside it, pointing straight at your face, and thrust it straight into those sparkling eyes of yours! Die, Worm!

What? How?... Ah, you managed to jump back from the reach of my sword. I wouldn't believe that you could react so quickly after fighting so long. I wonder… had I made a mistake in wanting to kill you personally? I have orcs, and Southerners, and trolls, even. I could have sent a troll… Bah! No! I will finish you myself! There is blood sipping through your sleeve. A weak spot? Hmm… let's look to it!

Now! I attack – a quick thrust. You parry, knock my sword aside. Whoa! You want to cut from underneath! No, I block your blow, and another. The blades sparkle. Yes, exhaust yourself! Your blows are weakening even now, and blood drips from your sleeve. I remember the orc scimitar that got through your defense as I watched. The orc is dead now, but that doesn't matter. The injury limits and slows you. There comes my chance! I brace my blade with my left hand, and as your blow comes at my waist, I wind my blade around yours and yank! There flies your sword to the ground!

Argh, stand still! Again you jumped back before my blow fell. With a somersault you want to reach your sword. But no! I am quick, too! And I am fresh; I waited for this fight. I jump in your path and kick you fiercely in the middle of the movement! Ah, that's satisfying! Your sharp cry, the pain in your eyes… I kick you again… and again! The triumph is sweet! Should I kill you quickly? Or should I toy with you? Maybe I won't kill you now. Maybe I'll set you into chains and bring you before the throne of my Master. He will be pleased… And you will beg for death before he is finished with you! Oh yes, that's a pleasant image! Almost as pleasant as now, when you crawl in the dust at my feet in agony!

Oh! What? No! How did you get to your sword?! You shouldn't have the strength to stand up! It happened so quickly, I've had no time to raise my sword! No! No! You wouldn't dare! You woul-…..

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This was written as a bit of a revenge for what MoS did in my story The Song in the Darkness. I know I made him do it, but still... :))


	4. Look into my Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not just a flaming eye, but a person. The last moments of Sauron.

Of my all forms, there is only one left. Of all my senses, I use only one. I don't remember the taste of wine in Valmar. I don't remember the feel of the hammer and anvil in my hands. I don't remember the sound of the Song I sang once, before Arda came into being. I see. I see the doom nearing. It walks with soft steps into the very heart of my realm, and I know it's too late already.

" _ **I have come. But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"**_

The centuries of watching, and yet I didn't see this coming. I know this form will not hold much longer, and so I look for the last time. Because that's what I am. Never sleeping, always burning with the devouring flame of my spirit. The Lidless Eye.

I look to the West. That is where you dwell on your lofty thrones. Manwë and Varda, even Aulë, once my teacher and master – and none of you understand! No, you are not my King any longer, Súlimo, traitor of your own kin! He was your brother! Once he was Melkor, a spirit of light... and yet you cast him out into the eternal darkness. Your herald spoke about mercy for me, but how could I trust you when you had none for your own brother?

You never understood him – how could I expect you to understand me? You saw only hate and destruction in his wake. You didn't see the love. He loved Arda so much, he wanted to own her. He even took a permanent form to be nearer to her – you would have never dared that. Not even I did – I enjoyed my many forms too much. And now, I have only one left, one that will be stripped from me soon...

You didn't see _my_ love. I didn't even want to own. I wanted to rule. There was so much chaos, and I wanted to bring order. Do you think I would serve Melkor if he would be the bringer of chaos as you thought? No, he was not. He was the only one who understood me...

_**"Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom."** _

Before the gates of my realm, a pitiful army is fighting my forces. And yet I know they will win. I gave my army the order and rule of my will. Without it, there will be nothing left of my work and efforts. I thought you a fool, Aragorn son of Arathorn, when I saw you standing before my gate. But you are no fool. You are a brave man, I must admit that. Maybe you will bring the order I craved into Middle-earth. Sometimes order equals death, you know? Death for the children of my master, Melkor, it will be. It could be death for you. One way or another there will be order; it is simply the side that brings it that matters in the end.

You knew I would be able to see you, and so you drew my sight to yourself. You could die before my gate, or even be imprisoned and brought before my throne, and yet you dared to stand before my gaze to shield another – the real danger I overlooked. I must respect you for that, Aragorn – just like I respected Finrod Felagund. You two have much in common. So desperate, so strong. When I saw your face in the palantír, I remembered him, standing tall and proud like a beacon of light before my throne, singing a song about everything that is pure and noble. His song almost defeated mine. But he made a mistake. He sang about Valinor, and that memory was tainted with the blood of his kin.

I tried the same with you. In the duel where our minds met, I searched every corner of yours for such memories, trying to bring despair into them. But you stood fast. Your mind was like a city with seven white walls, protecting you innermost self in the highest circle. A white tree stood there... Just for a moment, I wanted to stop and admire its beauty. That was _my_ mistake. You wrenched the stone out of my will, and left me feeling a strange loss... and respect for you.

' _ **Precious, precious, precious! My Precious! O my Precious!'**_

Dancing on the edge of a chasm. Aren't we all doing it? I did, so many times... I did when forging the Ring. It bound me just like it enhanced my power. An eternal bond to its fate, and to the fate of the material from which it was made – the heart of Arda. In a way, it was my marriage to her... My Precious.

I danced on the edge of a chasm when surrendering to Ar-Pharazôn. He was proud and arrogant, but the land of Númenor under his rule... Ah, I wanted to rule it myself! The orderly gardens and cities of polished marble... the proud towers rising high above the sea... And the white tree on the palace square. Just like now, I stopped for a moment to admire its beauty – before it fell under the axes of my command. My order is an order of cold stone and gems – things that do not die but last. It has no place for growing things. Maybe I learned something from Aulë after all...

Then I saw her. She was so cold and hard, like that stone, but I could sense the molten lava under the surface. Tar-Míriel, the king's spouse. I couldn't bear the thought of Ar-Pharazôn touching that marble skin. I wanted to have her for myself! And so I spun the nets of my plan slowly, a golden net of lies around the king of Númenor.

He sought immortality, and I convinced him that he could find it in the Undying Lands. For once you would be good for something, Valar on your high thrones... I danced on the edge of a chasm. And I fell...

Not just the fleet of Ar-Pharazôn was destroyed, but the entire island of Númenor fell with it. I remember her, climbing desperately upthe slopes of Meneltarma – in hope to escape the wrath of the waves, or simply with the hope to be closer to Ilúvatar in the moment of her death? The Ilúvatar who abandoned her, who destroyed everything, who stripped me off my fair form in that fall, and forced me to make the hardest decision and live it for the rest of the infinity... I could have saved her. I could save just one thing from the shambles of the once proud realm. I could have saved Tar-Míriel. I could have saved my fair form. But I chose to save something else. My Ring. My Precious. And I cursed Ilúvatar in that moment, and I ever will for what he has done to me.

" _ **Precioooooooooooooooous!"**_

Dancing on the edge of a chasm is dangerous... Now I fall again, fall with my Ring. A moment of pain – terrible burning, melting the very core of my spirit. No, I will not pass away in this form! The Eye, watching, looking for the lost Ring. It is not lost any more, and just before the wind blows the ashes of my extinguished spirit away, I become a Hand to wear it – reunited with it at last... in death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes (bold) from The Return of the King by J. R. R. Tolkien


	5. Shades of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manwë visits Melkor in the Void, and finds pity for the former enemy in his heart. Sometimes, there are shades of grey between white and black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation to Chinese by Pomela: <https://www.jjwxc.net/onebook.php?novelid=1706458>  
> Translation to German by Schattenhauch: <https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/54783c5b0000e4a932ebf416/1/Grautoene>

It was cold here, upon Taniquetil. The air was thin, and the snow on the peak never melted. The wind didn't blow. It was peaceful, serene – a white silence stretching through the halls of Ilmarin. There, high above all, Manwë sat on his throne, and his sight was directed to the east. The threat to Middle-earth has been destroyed. The One Ring has been melted in the fires of Orodruin, and a new age began. Change could be felt all over the world. And yet the expression of the Elder King was not one of joy. His all-seeing eyes were half-closed, focused not on the happening in the world, but something else. A memory, maybe. Then he turned his face away from the east, and looked to the west. And in his eyes, there was regret.

* * *

The Door of Night cracked. A thin strip of light appeared for a moment, then disappeared again. Steps in the silence. A gust of fresh breeze in the nothingness. For ages there had been no sound. Until now. Steps and echoes.

The hunched figure, barely noticeable among the shadows, made no movement.

The steps neared, then hesitated. Silence stretched immeasurably, almost like before. Yet it was a different kind of silence. Not the cold nothingness, but a mute silence struggling for the right words.

"Melkor."

For a few moments the silence returned, heavy and absolute. Then the dark head lifted just a few inches, and black eyes glistened behind the veil of falling hair. It was just a second before they dimmed again, and a voice hoarse from disuse whispered: "What more do you want?"

Manwë averted his eyes, and looked at the heavy door behind him as his resolution to stay wavered. But then his gaze returned, drawn back to the one who was once the Dark Enemy of the World, and he knelt beside him, regarding the picture he saw.

Before him was the one who was once the most powerful of the Valar. Now he knelt in the shadows, bent under the weight of chains. Manwë remembered the dark armour and a cruel face behind the mask of iron. Now he looked into that face again, and he saw only pain. It was pale and worn out, with dark circles beneath the dull eyes.

Manwë's heart clenched when he remembered the moment when Melkor knelt before him, begging for mercy. The proud black crown he wore has been beaten into a collar for his neck. Defeated and humbled he knelt, and yet Manwë had no mercy for him then. He was the darkness, the discord in harmony. The destroyer. What he touched was tainted by his dark spirit. What he desired was more and more power over the world shaped to the image of his dark thoughts, built in blood and tears of his slaves. A world without hope where the stars do not shine. But now...

"I think I understand now," Manwë said quietly.

A bitter chuckle escaped the pale lips. "You do?"

Again Manwë's sight wandered to the Door of Night, torn between the desire to know the truth, and fear of the possible consequences. He called to Ilúvatar in his mind, but there was no answer. He took a deep breath.

"It was love," he said slowly, "not hate. You loved Arda." He looked into the black eyes for refusal or confirmation. Something flickered in them again, piercing the dullness of lonely ages. Such was the pain in them that Manwë longed to reach his hand and offer little comfort he could with his touch. But he did not. "So you did," he whispered.

A sad smile. "Yes."

For some time they remained side by side in silence – the victor and the defeated enemy.

"I did not understand," Manwë sighed. "Until now."

"What made you understand?" There was just a little shade of interest in the question.

"The Ring," Manwë replied, but immediately realized that Melkor knew nothing of the recent war. He seated himself more comfortably, trying to not think about the nothingness around him. It tugged painfully at something deep within him, but he ignored the feeling. "Sauron put a part of his power into it. He was defeated when the Ring was destroyed."

Melkor winced when he heard about the end of his trusted servant, but said nothing.

"Middle-earth is your Ring, am I right? You bound yourself to her, put a part of your own essence into her, accepted a body from her matter... We always thought that you did it to mar her, to control her, but..."

"...but I did it out of love for her," Melkor finished the thought quietly.

Manwë closed his eyes, thinking about his own love to the world they sang into being together. Was it strong enough to sacrifice a part of himself for it? Was it strong enough to bind himself to it like Melkor did? He did not know.

"Then why?" he asked suddenly with a bitter tone.

"Why did I try to destroy her?"

Manwë nodded mutely.

"I did not."

"But..."

"I did not want to destroy her. Yes, I hurt her. She was so beautiful in pain. You wanted to tame her, to lull her spirit into stagnation. No change, no movement... But she was wild. Passion and darkness and the glory of chaos..."

"It was in your Song..." Manwë nodded slightly, fascinated against his own will.

"Yes, but you didn't listen."

"I did. But did not understand..."

For some time they sat in silence again, but Manwë was growing uneasy, and his gaze wandered to the Door ever more often.

Melkor followed him from beneath half-closed eyelids. "Go," he said finally. "After the ages you are bound to her more than you would think. She calls to you..."

Manwë looked at him in surprise when he realized that this was indeed the painful tug at his very essence that he felt, the aching of an empty place in him like an itch on a place that one cannot scratch. And in that moment he realized what torment it must be for Melkor, whose essence was connected to her much more deeply, who had a body of flesh not just as a raiment but a part of his very being. He did not leave.

"Oh brother..." Guided by his heart, not mind, Manwë's hand reached to Melkor... brushed away the loose strands of hair... touched his cheek lightly...

Melkor tensed under the touch at first, but then leaned into it, like dry, scorched land savours the first rain in many years. Manwë could feel him trembling slightly, and when a hot drop fell on his finger, he knew it is a tear from someone he hadn't thought capable of weeping.

But the moment passed, and Melkor leaned back harshly, as far as the chains allowed him.

"Go," he said hoarsely. "You are just making it harder..."

Manwë sighed, and let his hand sink back to his side.

"You had a chance," he said bitterly. "Why didn't you take it?"

Melkor averted his face. "A chance for what? To become what you wanted me to be and lose what I really was?"

"And because of that you destroyed what was most pure and beautiful?" There was a shade of anger in Manwë's voice now. The anger and despair at the loss. Anger at Melkor, at Ungoliant, at himself for allowing something like that to happen in the heart of his own realm... He wanted Melkor to defend himself, to say something that would break the dam of that anger so it could pour out.

But the Dark Vala didn't say anything. "I'm sorry..." he sighed.

Manwë froze. "You are... what?"

"I'm sorry for the Trees," Melkor repeated quietly. "I shouldn't have let it go so far. I was bitter and angry at you for keeping me in chains for three ages. You know, maybe I would take the chance you spoke of if you had just sent me to Mandos. It was peaceful there, almost soothing. I think I would have been able to enjoy that peace. But you bound me, and that my free spirit couldn't stand. I pretended I changed to be released from the chains..." his gaze unconsciously travelled to the chain binding him now – the same chain, Angainor, made of _tilkal_ by Aulë himself - but he forced himself to look back at Manwë and continued: "...I pretended I changed, and plotted revenge. But I shouldn't have gone to her."

"Ungoliant." Manwë nodded darkly, spitting the word like a curse.

"Yes," Melkor sighed. "When I realized that, it was too late. I barely managed to save the Silmarils from her Unlight. I barely managed to escape myself."

"The Silmarils you stole," Manwë said dryly.

Melkor winced as though hit by a blow. He was quiet for a moment, struggling with the words. "I realized then what I had just done..." he said finally. "I just wanted a memory of the Light. I... I had none of my own left..." Melkor whispered regretfully, and shuddered at the memory of the hungry spider that the talk woke. "I saved them from her..." He looked at his hands burned by the holy jewels. It was an ever-present pain, a wound that never healed. Yet it was almost nothing besides the pain of his separation from Arda.

Suddenly the pain of his burns eased. A cool hand took his, and soothed his wounds. He looked up, and met Manwë's sight. Tears were the eyes of the Lord of Winds. The light of the Silmarils... It was the only light Melkor has left at the end, and even that they have taken away from him. "How can I know you are telling the truth? How can I believe you?"

"You can't," he answered quietly. "I am Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World, remember?"

"But you are also my brother..." Manwë closed his eyes. He called to Ilúvatar again, begged for advice, anything... But the One did not answer. Silence, as deep as the nothingness around him. He was alone in his decision and its consequences. As alone as his brother was for the ages in the Void.

With a loud jangle the heavy chain Angainor suddenly fell from Melkor's body. He staggered as the weight lifted, and looked at Manwë with total astonishment. "What... What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Manwë answered hoarsely, and embraced his brother, supporting him when he almost fell, too weak from the torment of having his essence torn between Arda and the Void for so long. But he also sought some support in the embrace, terrified by the gravity of what he has just done.

Long did they remain so, two former enemies, two brothers, until the first shock passed for both of them.

"Oh brother, what have you done?" Melkor asked again, when he found his voice. "What will become of us?"

"I do not know," Manwë whispered, and gently wiped the hot tears that fell from Melkor's eyes. "Come, we will find out." He lifted Melkor to his feet, and together they slowly walked to the Door of Night.

* * *

The Door separating Arda from the Void opened, and two figures walked into the light of the world, one supporting the other. Then the darker figure fell to his knees, and dug his fingers into the soil, weeping with joy and relief.

And when the light of Eärendil, the bearer of the last Silmaril fell on them, their clothes, black and blue-white once, both seemed grey in the twilight.


End file.
